


I Don't Wanna See You Smile

by AJfanfic



Series: Crowley has Chronic Pain [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous Historical Setting, Can Be Read As Romantic, Chronic Pain, Disability, Disabled Character, Disabled!Crowley, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, and isn't projecting, author has chronic pain, can be read as platonic, not at all, so basically like canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 04:49:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19310953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJfanfic/pseuds/AJfanfic
Summary: “I’m just, eh, supposed to be a snake I ‘spose.”“What do you mean by that, my dear?”“I’m not mean to have, you know, legs. Or arms for that matter.” Crowley shifted on his feet. “They don’t work quite right.”Crowley has chronic pain. He hasn't told the angel, and honestly, it's getting to be a bit of a problem. Aziraphale does what he can to help.





	I Don't Wanna See You Smile

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for Crowley casually mentioning he thinks his pain is a divine punishment.
> 
> Title from [Beige by Yoke Lore](https://open.spotify.com/track/0FfZudphGgQTGeEV6AhmOs?si=jbtDZa_RT2WU7rtH21UvaQ), which is an awesome fit for these two and this story!

The advent of the gentleman’s walking stick was, well, not a blessing, but something infernally parallel. Aesthetically, of course, Crowley approved. They were very dramatic and could be quite threatening when applied correctly. He himself owned somewhere around twenty of them. Their craftsmanship was unparalleled and, unlike most of the fashionable pieces you'd see in St James’, they could all bear quite a bit of weight. For instance, the weight of the person-shaped being currently attempting to walk through said park with a certain angel.

Practically, though it was not usually something he’d consider, Crowley approved of them as well.

He’d always had an odd gait. Something about coming to his limbs rather later than everybody else. Crowley still hadn’t made up his mind as to whether the way he walked helped matters or made them worse. Arms were not too bad, usually just a little achy. Occasionally they were more stabby than achy, but generally not too distracting. Spine was less fun. He wasn’t supposed to move like this body made him, conflict of natures and all that. It was like it couldn’t decide how bendy it wanted to be, how many vertebrae there ought to be. Serpent and man compromised and as a result, Crowley’s back was never less painful than the little yellow, expressionless face on the pain scale around the four. Inconvenient, uncomfortable, unpleasant even, with spikes into frustrating and distressing when he slept wrong or in a bed that wasn’t his or sat for too long on the wrong chair.

The walking sticks never really helped with all that. If anything, they made his wrists and shoulders worse. The pressure of his weight on just one point for any amount of time was never great. It was completely worth it, in Crowley’s opinion, because the absolute worst part of holding a human form was his legs. They just didn’t...fit. His knees twisted further than they ought to. His ankles protested at every possible position. His hips were without a doubt, the worst of the bunch.

Every now and then, Crowley would do something miraculously  _ right. _ He’d find the right angle, the right pace, the right shoes, the right cobblestone texture and walking would feel like what he expected it felt like for other people and person-shaped beings. Then any of infinite variables would shift and he’d have to stop and catch his breath. Shifting his weight didn’t help, it just shifted the pain around. Sitting didn’t do much either. Made it better for a bit, then made it a whole new kind of bad, then redoubled it’s efforts when he eventually had to stand up again. Crowley had never been terribly good with words, that was much more the angel’s forte. He’d bet money that even Aziraphale would struggle to put words to the feeling. It was sharp and local, and it was a throbbing ache through his whole leg and up through his side. It was just pressure in his chest sometimes, a dizzy faint feeling that didn’t go away even when he reminded himself he didn’t actually need to breathe.

Limping about helped some, but Someone it was demeaning. Crowley felt his age, he was very careful to never show it. He was Careful in a way that deserved a capital C. How he slept, how he moved, everything had to be thought out. Else he’d end up collapsing back into his seat when he tried to get up, or something embarrassing like that. He’d been lucky, that time, that he’d been drinking. It made for a good excuse. Of course, being Careful went against something deep in his nature. He made exceptions. It was worth it sometimes, to go for a walk in the park, sit on the blessed ground like everyone else, carry the angel’s basket for him and look forward to holding a full glass of wine.

This brings us to the present, where Crowley is doing exactly that, basket in one hand and walking stick in the other. Today’s was carved from apple wood, which he found hilariously ironic. Aziraphale was a few paces ahead of him. He had some new books at the shop, and really, if Crowley just gave them a try, he might like them quite a bit. He smiled softly at the angel’s back, letting himself lean a little more heavily on the walking stick and be lead through the garden.

* * *

Aziraphale picked a spot after five minutes of wandering, in the shade of a large oak. “Help me with the blanket?”

Crowley bent to set the basket down, pulling a tartan blanket from it. He set his walking stick aside, propping it against the basket. Aziraphale frowned. He could have sworn he’d seen Crowley’s expression pull tight with the motion.  _ Does he not like the spot? Is it too shady? _

They each grabbed a side and lay it out. Aziraphale definitely hadn’t imagined it, the tension in his friend’s jaw was visible a mile away. Crowley sat down heavily, tipping onto his side.  Well, sat down was giving it rather more credit that the motion deserved. It was more like a graceful crumple. Aziraphale wanted to say something. They’d known each other for too long for him to bother asking if Crowley was okay, though. The answer would, without a doubt, be something reassuring, followed by something insulting, and then a change of subject. Crowley kept his legs tucked up under him, one shoulder leaning against the tree and didn’t sprawl out like he usually would. They had their lunch in a rather more pensive silence than usual.

“Angel.” Crowley broke the quiet as they were finishing the wine. “It’s going to rain soon, we should pack this all away.”

“Is it?” He glanced up, and sure enough, clouds were gathering in the east. “Yes, alright. Care to come back to the shop? I’ve got another bottle of this waiting for us.”

“Mm, sounds tempting.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Why not.”

They stored away the remainders of lunch and stood up. Well, Aziraphale stood up. Crowley braced both hands on his walking stick, shoved himself to his feet, and promptly collapsed back to the ground with a soft “oof” when his legs gave out beneath him.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale fluttered about his friend, searching for signs of injury. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Ill?”

Crowley gave him a tight smile. “Nah, just moved too fast. Give me a second.” He took a deep breath and stood up again, leaning against the tree this time to give himself time to adjust. He reached out to take the basket, but Aziraphale pulled it closer to his chest, worry clear on his face.

“Shall we?” Crowley blinked. They were standing in the back room of the shop. “Angel, really. I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Aziraphale snapped. “‘Perfectly fine’ and collapsing are mutually exclusive. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing!” He snapped, “Nothing’s wrong with me.” They stared each other down in silence for a moment before Crowley caved. When the angel wanted something, there was no stopping him. Stubborn bastard. “It’s just the way I am.”

“What is?” Aziraphale’s voice was softer now.

“I’m just, eh, supposed to be a snake I ‘spose.”

“What do you mean by that, my dear?”

“I’m not mean to have, you know, legs. Or arms for that matter.” Crowley shifted on his feet. “They don’t work quite right.”

Aziraphale’s brow drew together. “Would you like to sit down? How long has it been a problem?”

“Better not, don’t want to fall again.” He looked anywhere but at the angel. “Since the Fall I guess, not really sure about before that. Don’t ‘spose I had a reason to be punished before so probably not.”

“You mean…” Aziraphale sat heavily on the edge of the couch, looking up at him. “You’ve been in pain this whole time?”

“Well, yeah.” Crowley tugged on a curl that had escaped it’s gelled prison. “Don’t look at me like that. This is why I didn’t tell you.” He wanted to pace. He decided to be Careful. Crowley stayed still.

“Like what, dear boy?”

“With pity.”

“It’s not pity, Crowley, it’s guilt.” Aziraphale reached out and took his hand. “We’ve been friends for nearly 6000 years and I never noticed. I should have noticed before you outright collapsed.”

“It’s been getting worse.” He mumbled. “And I tried to hide it, ‘s not your fault.”

“Still.” Crowley swallowed hard as another wave of pain pressed against his mind.  _ Standing too long. Or the rain. Someone only knows. _

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “Do you...do you want me to try to help?”

“Can’t fix me, I’ve tried. It’s a conflict of my infernal nature and my human body, I think.” He’d thought about it quite a lot, lying awake on nights when a coming storm wouldn’t let him sleep.

“Not heal it then, just make it bother you a little less?”

Something hissy and mistrusting told him to say no. The angel would listen, if he didn’t want him to. He’d been vulnerable enough, didn’t need to show the Enemy just how far his weakness went. What he said was “Yes please,” in a voice rather more breathless than he was comfortable with as the room started to fade out at the edges of his vision. “And I think I might sit down now.”

Aziraphale slid over on the couch, still holding his hand, and guided him down next to him. His eyes glowed a warm gold color as he looked at his friend. Crowley’s aura was writhing around him, a chlorotic yellow-green. He traced the twisted threads of energy back to the pull. They were a knotted mess, strands of pearls thrown haphazardly into a dish and abandoned, silk stockings worn through a bramble patch. Aziraphale reached out with fingers of grace and coaxed them straight. He kept his touch light. Too much of heaven would leave Crowley hurting just as badly as he was now.

Crowley relaxed as he worked, sagging against his angelic warmth in a haphazard sprawl he wouldn’t have attempted that morning. By the time Aziraphale was done, he was exhausted and Crowley was asleep, face pillowed on his soft thigh. He ran his fingers through mussed auburn curls and smiled. He had a lot of missed time to make up for. A nap was a good way to start.

**Author's Note:**

> My pain hasn't been as bad as Crowley's is in some time (mostly because I finally got the help he only admits to needing at the end). He's pretty much where I was a year ago. Take your meds and do your PT, folks!
> 
> I'm planning to explore these ideas more in the future, Crowley interacting with ableism and different supports through history, as well as his relationship with Aziraphale and his own body. Stay tuned!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at [Armageddon, Armageddoff](https://not-a-fucking-pogo-stick.tumblr.com/) and yell about Good Omens with me!


End file.
